It was not what he had expected to hear. His shock must have been written clearly on his face, because the Dean smiled a little again. "This is Herald Teren," he continued, gesturing to the other man, who although friendlier, was looking distinctly worried. "He is, technically, in charge of you, since he is in charge of all of the newly Chosen. You'll be getting your first lessons from him, and he will show you to your new quarters and help get you set up. Under normal circumstances, he would have picked out a mentor for you among the older students— but these are not normal circumstances. So although one of the older students will be assigned as a mentor, in actuality you will have a very different, though altogether unofficial mentor."
"That," said a grating voice that put chills up Skif's back, "myself would be."
He knew that voice, and that accent— though when he'd heard it before, it hadn't been nearly so thick.
And when the third figure stepped out of the shadows, arms folded over his chest, scar-seamed face smiling sardonically, he stepped back a pace without thinking about it. Skif had never seen the hair before— stark black with thick streaks of white running through it— because it had been hidden under a hood or a hat. But there was no mistaking that satur-nine face or those cold, agate-gray eyes. This was the sell-sword who'd spoken with (and spied on?) Jass, who had threatened Skif in the cemetery.
"You!" he blurted.
"This is Herald Alberich, the Collegium Weaponsmaster," said the Dean,
"And I will leave you with him and Teren."
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"But you can't bbbe a Herald—" Skif stammered. "Where's yer, yer white—"
"Herald Alberich has special dispensation from Her Majesty herself not to wear the uniform of Heraldic Whites," Herald Teren interrupted, as Alberich's expression changed only in that he raised his right eyebrow slightly.
And now, suddenly, an explanation for Skif's own rather extraordinary behavior in the cemetery hit him, and he stared at the Herald in the dark gray leather tunic and tight trews with something like accusation. "You Truth Spelled me!"
Now that he knew Alberich was a Herald, there was no doubt in his mind why he had found himself telling the man what he knew that night in the cemetery. Everyone knew about Heralds and their Truth Spell, though Skif was the first person in his own circle of acquaintances who'd actually undergone it, much less seen it.
The two Heralds exchanged a glance. "Elcarth's right," said Teren. "He's very quick."
"Survive long he would not, were he not," Alberich replied, and fastened his hawklike eyes on Skif, who shrank back, just as he had that night. "I did. Because there was need. Think on this— had you by any other been caught, it would not have been Truth Spell, but a knife."
Skif shivered convulsively, despite the baking heat. The man was right. He gulped.
Alberich took another couple of steps forward, so that Skif was forced to look up at him. "Now, since there is still need, without Truth Spell, what you were about in following that scum, you will tell me. And fully, you will tell it."
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Skif raised his chin, stiffened his spine, and glared back. "T'you. Not t' im.
I know you. I don' know 'im."
The Heralds exchanged another glance. "Fair enough," Teren said easily.
"I'll be outside when you're ready for me to take him over."
Herald Teren turned and strode out the door on the other side of the stable.
Skif didn't take his eyes off Alberich, whose gaze, if anything, became more penetrating.
"Heard you have, of the man Jass, and his ending." It was a statement, not a question, but Skif nodded anyway. "And? You followed him for moons.
Why?"
" 'E burned down th' place where m'mates lived." Skif made it a flat statement in return, and kept his face absolutely dead of expression. "They died. I heard 'im say 'xactly that with m'own ears, an' 'e didn't care, all 'e cared about was 'e didn' want t' get caught. Fact, 'e said 'e got rid of some witnesses afore 'e set th' fire. Might even've been them."
Alberich nodded. "He was not nearly so free with me."
Skif tightened his jaw. "Honest— I was in the cem'tery by accident, but I was where I could 'ear real good. An' I 'eard 'im an' th' bastid what hired
'im talkin' 'bout a new job, an' talkin' 'bout the old one. I already figgered I was gonna take 'im down somehow— but only after I foun' out 'oo 'twas what give 'im th' order."
A swift intake of breath was all the reaction that Alberich showed— and a very slight nod. "Which was why you followed him." A pause. "He was more than that— more than just a petty arson maker, more even than a murderer. As his master was— is. Which was why I followed him."
Skif only shook his head. Alberich's concerns meant nothing to him—
— except—
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"You know 'oo 'e is!" he shot out, feeling himself flush with anger. "The boss! You know! " He held himself as still as a statue, although he would cheerfully have leaped on the man at that moment, and tried to beat the knowledge out of him.
But Alberich shook his head, and it was with a regret and a disappointment that went so deeply into the tragic that it froze Skif where he stood. "I do not," he admitted. "Hope, I had, you did."
At that moment, instead of simply glaring at him, Alberich actually looked at him, caught his eyes, and stared deeply into them, and Skif felt a sensation like he had never before experienced. It was as if he literally stood on the edge of an abyss, staring down into it, and it wasn't that if he made a wrong move he'd fall, it was the sudden understanding that this was what Alberich had meant when he'd said that these were waters too deep for Skif to swim in. There were deep matters swirling all around him that Skif was only a very tiny part of, and yet— he had the chance to be a pivotal part of it.
If he dared. If he cared enough to see past his own loss and sorrows, and see greater tragedy and need and be willing to lay himself on the line to fix it.
:Chosen— please. This is real. This is what I meant when I said that we needed you.:
He gazed into that abyss, and thought back at Cymry as hard as he could— :Is that the only reason you Chose me?: Because if it was—
—if it was, and all of the love and belonging that had filled his heart and soul when he first looked into her eyes was a lie, a ruse to catch someone with his particular "set of skills"—
:Are you out of your mind?: she snapped indignantly, shaken right out of her solemnity by the question. :Can't you feel why I Chose you?: 214
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That answer, unrehearsed, unfeigned, reassured him as no speech could have. And something in him shifted, straining against a barrier he hadn't realized was there until that moment.
But he still had questions that needed answering. "An' if ye find this
'master,' no matter how highborn 'e is," he asked slowly, "ye'll do what? "
"Bring him to justice," Alberich replied instantly, and held up a hand, to forgo any interruptions. "For murder. Of your friends, if no other can be proved, although—"
"There are others?" Skif asked— not in amazement, no, for if the bastard, whoever he was, had been coldhearted enough to burn down a building full of people, he surely had other deaths on his conscience.
Now, for the first time, Alberich's face darkened with an anger Skif was very glad was not aimed at him. "Three of which I know, and perhaps more. And there is that which is worse than murder, which only kills the body. Slaving, for workers, but worse, to make pleasure slaves. Behind it, he is. In small— in the selling of children, here, even from the streets of Haven. And in large, very large, wherein whole families are reaved from their homes and sold OutKingdom."
Skif h
eard himself gasp. There had always been rumors of that in the streets, and Bazie had hinted at it— but even his uncle hadn't stooped that low.
Worse than murder? Well— yes. He closed his eyes a moment, and thought about those rumors a moment. If the rumors were more than that, and the children— orphans or the unwanted— who vanished from Haven's streets ended up in the place where Bazie had intimated they went—
—and if there really were entire villages full of people who were snatched up and sold OutKingdom—
"Worse," he heard himself agreeing.
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"And one answer there is, for such evil." Alberich's stone-like expression gave away nothing, but Skif wasn't looking for anything there. He already had his answer; forget anything else, he and this iron-spined man had a common cause.
And somewhere inside him, the barrier strained and broke.
"I'm in," was all he said. "I'm with ye." Alberich's eyes flickered briefly, then he nodded.
"More, we will speak, and at length. Now—"
There were a great many things Alberich could have said. If you want revenge, you'd better keep your nose clean, for instance, or if you get yourself thrown out of here for messing up, neither one of us will get what he wants. Or you'll have to work hard at being respectable, because it's going to take someone who looks respectable to trap this bastard.
He said none of those things. He let another of those penetrating looks analyze Skif and say something else. Something— that had warning in it, but against danger and not mere misbehavior. Something that had acceptance in it as well, and an acknowledgment that Skif had the right to be in this fight. And Skif nodded, quite as if he had heard every bit of it in words.
Alberich smiled. It was the sort of smile that said, I see we understand one another. That was all, but that was all that was needed.
A moment later, the sound of boots on the straw-covered floor marked Herald Teren's return. "Later speech, we will have," Alberich promised, as Teren reached them. "For now— other things."
* * *
The other things were not what Skif had expected. Not that he'd really had any inkling of what to expect, but not even his vaguest intuitions measured up to his introduction to the Collegium and his first candlemarks as a Trainee.
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"If you're all right, then, follow me," Herald Teren said, and started off, quite as if he assumed Skif would follow and not bolt. Which Skif did, of course; it seemed that he was "in for it" after all, but not in the way he'd thought. His emotions were mixed, to say the least.
On top of it all was excitement and some apprehension still. Just beneath that was a bewildered sort of wonder and the certainty that at any moment they would realize they'd made a mistake— or that fearsome Alberich would call the Guards. He'd lived with what he was for so long….
Beneath that, though— was something still of the new image of the world and his place in it that he'd gotten during that encounter with Alberich.
That— granted, the world stank, and a lot of people in it were rotten, and horrible things happened— but that he, little old Skif, petty thief, had a chance that wasn't given to many people, to help make things better. Not right; the job of making everything right was too big for one person, for a group of people like the Heralds, even— but better.
And under all of that, slowly and implacably filling in places he hadn't known were empty, was a feeling he couldn't even put a name to. It was big, that feeling, and it had been the thing that had broken through his barriers back there, when Cymry reaffirmed her bond with him. It was compounded of a lot of things; release, relief, those were certainly in there. But with the release came a sense that he was now irrevocably bound to something— something good. And accepted by that
"something." A feeling that he belonged, at last, to something he'd been searching for without ever realizing that he'd been looking. And there was an emotion connected with Cymry in there that, if he had to put a name to it, he might have said (with some embarrassment) was love. It was scary, having something that big sweep him up in itself. And if he had to think about it, he knew he'd be absolutely paralyzed—
So he didn't think about it. He just let it do whatever it was going to do, turning a blind eye to it. But he couldn't help but feel a little more cheerful, a little more at ease here, with every heartbeat that passed.
And there was plenty to keep him distracted from anything going on inside him, anyway.
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Teren led him away from the stable and toward a building that absolutely dwarfed every other structure he had ever seen. And if he was impressed, he hated to think how all those farmboys and fisherfolk Cymry had talked about must have felt when they first saw it.
The building was huge, three-and-a-half stories of gray stone with a four-story double tower at the joining of two of the walls just ahead of them.
"This is Herald's Collegium and the Palace," Teren said, waving his hand in an arc that took in everything. "You can't actually see the New Palace part of the structure from here; it's blocked by this wing next to us, which is where all the Kingdom's Heralds have rooms."
"But most uv 'em don't live here, at least, not most of th' time," Skif stated, on a little firmer ground. "Right?"
Teren nodded. "That's right. The only Heralds in permanent residence are the teachers at the Collegium and the Lord Marshal's Herald, the Seneschal's Herald, and the Queen's Own Herald. Have you any idea who they are?"
Skif shook his head, not particularly caring that he didn't know. This new feeling, whatever it was, had a very slightly intoxicating effect. "Not a clue," he said. "I figger ye'll tell me in them lessons. Right?"
"Right, we'll leave that to Basic Orientation; it isn't something you need to understand this moment." Teren seemed relieved at his answer. "Now, straight ahead of us is Herald's Collegium, which is attached to the residence wing, both for the convenience of the teachers and—" he cast a jaundiced eye on Skif "—to try and keep the Trainees out of mischief."
Skif laughed; it was very clear from Teren's tone and body language that he meant all Trainees, not just Skif. He couldn't help but cast an envious glance at the wing beside them, though; he couldn't help but think that as a Trainee, he'd probably be packed in among all the other Trainees with very little privacy.
"Healer's Collegium and Bardic are also on the grounds, on the other side of Heralds,' " Teren continued, waving his hand at the three-and-a-half 218
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story wing ahead of them. "You'll share some of your classes with students from there. Healer Trainees wear pale green, Bardic Trainees wear a rust red rather than a true red. There will also be students who wear a pale blue which is similar to, but darker than, the pages' uniforms. Those are a mixed bag. Some of them are highborn whose parents choose to have them tutored here rather than have private teachers, but most are talented commoners who are going to be Artificers."
"What's an Artificer?" Skif wanted to know.
"People who build things. Bridges, buildings, contrivances that do work like mills, pumps," Teren said absently. "People who dig mines and come up with the things that crush the ore, people who make machines, like clocks, printing presses, looms. It takes a lot of knowing how things work and mathematics, which is why they are here."
"Keep that away from me!" Skif said with a shudder. "Sums! I had just about enough of sums!"
"Well, if you don't come up to a particular standard, you'll be getting more of them, I'm afraid," Teren said, and smiled at Skif's crestfallen face.
"Don't worry, you won't be the only one who's less than thrilled about undertaking more lessons in reckoning. You'll need it; some day, you may have to figure out how to rig a broken bridge or fix a wall."
They entered in at a door right in the tower that stood at the angle where the Herald's Wing met the Collegium. There was a spiraling staircase paneled in dark wood th
ere, lit by windows at each landing. Skif expected them to go up, but instead, they went down.
"First, Housekeeping and Stores," Teren informed him. "The kitchen is down here, too. Now, besides taking lessons, you'll be assigned chores here in the Collegium. All three Collegia do this with their Trainees. The only thing that the Trainees don't do for themselves is the actual cooking and building repair work."
Skif made a face, but then something occurred to him. "Highborn, too?"
he asked.
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"Highborn, too," Teren confirmed. "It makes everyone equal— and we never want a Herald in the field to be anything other than self-sufficient.
That means knowing how to clean and mend and cook, if need be. That way you don't owe anyone anything— because we don't want you to have anything going on that might be an outside influence on your judgment."
"Huh." By now, they had reached the lowest landing and the half cellar—which wasn't really a cellar as Skif would have recognized one, since it wasn't at all damp, and just a little cooler than the staircase. Teren went straight through the door at the bottom of the staircase, and Skif followed.
They entered a narrow, whitewashed room containing only a desk and a middle-aged woman who didn't look much different from any ordinary craftsman's wife that Skif had ever seen. She had pale-brown hair neatly braided and wrapped around her head, and wore a sober, dark-blue gown with a spotless white apron. "New one, Gaytha," said Teren, as she looked up.
She gave him a different sort of penetrating look than Alberich had; this one looked at everything on the surface, and nothing underneath. "You'll be a ten, I think," she said, and stood up, pushing away from her desk.
Exiting through a side doorway, she returned a moment later with a pile of neatly folded clothing, all in a silver-gray color, and a lumpy bag. "Here's your uniforms— now let me see your shoes."
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